The Five Swords, Chapter 1 (1st Draft)

Closed eyes. Gaping mouth. Red. Brown hair. Yellow flowers. Red. Hard iron. Gelra. Red. Closed eyes. Red. Gelra. Gaping mouth. Red. Soft skin. Red. Eyes open.

Gelra!

He opened his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. Just a dream.

The council meeting was still going on. Boring talk of boring subjects by men over twice his age. When the gods had gifted him with his sword as a child, he'd never dreamed of playing politician, but peace was the law of the land. It left little room for swords.

The men seated around Gelra, eyeing him briefly before turning their attention back to whoever was speaking, weren't interested in his frustrations. They worried about money. Other people's money. Getting more money. Spending money.

Boring.

Gelra considered going back to sleep, but the light shining into the chambers was from a low sun. It was almost time to leave, get back to his temporary home here in the city. His eyes wandered around the many stern faces, hoping to find Shar, the swordsman who trained him. There. Gray hair tied back. Neatly trimmed beard, still black despite his age. The blue-stained pieces of leather armor were more decorative than functional, just like Gelra's own brown pieces. Just like the swordsmen themselves. Stupakparya they were called, a title that once meant something, but now all it got him now was a sore back from sitting on a stiff wooden bench all day. Shar was a lot better at putting on a good face to impress the politicians, but young Gelra didn't care enough to try and hide his annoyance, only enough to not get up and leave.

Shar wasn't looking in his direction, just the speakers as they came, spoke, and left and the people seated immediately next to him, whispering to each other. Gelra stretched his legs, stiff from the hours and hours of sitting, interrupted only once to relieve himself. He'd spotted two other swordsmen along the way, but they were too busy with each other to pay him any attention. A pang of jealousy for the lovers, one built to fight and win, and the other beautiful as the sun, made his heart beat fast for a moment.

The fifth swordsmen, Alyadim, hadn't been spotted by him. He wondered if he was even in attendance, and why Gelra was. It was a waste of time, but when the closing prayer came to an end he wasted no time in getting up and making for the nearest exit. It was time to relieve himself again.

"Ahawa!"

Shar was standing next to a couple of the men he'd been speaking to during the meeting when Gelra stepped back out onto the green surrounding the enormous council chambers. Straightening himself up while walking towards them-

Why do I care what these forgettable people think of me?

-Gelra weaved through the crowd spreading its way into the city of Skandagal. He'd hoped to see Shar before night fell, if only to say goodbye. The last few years it seemed like they only ever saw each other at these annual meetings, and sometimes not even then.

"You know I prefer Gelra, Shar."

"Here, I want you to meet some people," he said, ignoring his comment. "This is S----­ and D----," he said, motioning to each. Each wore the expensively embroidered tunic and shawl of priesthood. "They'll be accompanying us on our voyage north."

His mind started racing as he held each of their hands in turn to greet them. "I'm sorry, what voyage?"

"I want you to come with us to Kalires. I've found a beautiful cave there, and I want to show it to you. I doubt anybody knows about it but me. I've been describing it to these two men during the meeting,"

Glad he was just as bored as I was.

"and they wish for me to show it to them. Get closer to the gods. You really feel their blessing sitting inside, away from, well," he said, gesturing around him, "all this. You should go and grab your things. I'm planning on leaving tonight if we can."

"But, I," don't want to "can't. They're expecting me back home. It's hard enough on my uncle leaving him for these meetings. I can't leave him alone longer than is necessary."

"Ah, I forget." The disappointment in his eyes almost made him change his mind. "Well, perhaps afterwards, eh? Give my regards to your uncle for me." With that he turned back to the men whose names Gelra had already forgotten and began walking with them towards the harbor while Gelra turned and walked away, cursing himself under his breath.

I should've gone. Idiot. Why didn't I go? I should've gone. Stupid. Stupid.

Regret followed him all the way to his bed that night, alone with his thoughts in a cold dark room. The noises outside his room certainly didn't improve things. Eventually exhaustion overtook him and he got a bit of peace.

They next day he hitched a ride with a farmer who'd come to town to sell off some of his crops. The man was nice enough, but Gelra cared even less about raising crops than politics, and spent most of the trip in the back of the cart lying down and staring up at the sky. The wood still reeked of whatever fruit the farmer had raised, with scattered dark splotches left behind by the pieces squished by those above them. The sweetness mixed with smell of grass and flowers that grew in the fields on either side of the road. Much more pleasant than the city. A bump here and there prevented him from getting too comfortable though, and Gelra welcomed the darkening sky.

"How far'd we get?"

"Well, Bacha's still-"he said, his words cut short by an arrow he took to the chest. Gelra's eyes widened. Heart raced. Riders, four of them, dark, a bit off the road ahead but getting closer. He wrapped his arms around the man's limp body and grabbed the reigns, urging the old farm horse into a gallop. Another arrow flew, sinking into the man's thigh. Come on! The cart shook violently, the stiff cart making it hard for him to keep his balance without holding onto the dying man tighter. Another arrow, sticking from the horse's neck this time. As he urged the horse on, Gelra saw the glint of metal against the black. Come ON! A raised arm swiftly lowered, a sword catching the horse on its shoulder and collar. Gelra fell back down into the cart, hoping not to receive the next sword swing. Chop. Warm wet along his arm. Thud. Pressure. He couldn't get up. The farmer was lying on top of him. He rolled out from underneath and got up, glancing at the riders; now behind him, but not chasing. Why? He swung his legs over and settled into the driver's seat, desperate to get to Bacha before it was too late. He was too afraid to see that it already was.

*          *          *

He woke up. Bright light shining on his face. What happened? He slowly became aware of a sore arm and that he wasn't wearing any clothes. There were a few pieces of cheap clothing folded and stacked on the floor by the mat he'd fell asleep on. After dressing and exiting the room he found himself standing in a long hall, similar doors to his own going on in a sequence of four, ending in a blank wall. He turned the other way and saw another pair of doors, this time ending in a door, barely open, with nothing but darkness beyond. He walked slowly towards it with legs as sore as his arm. Creak.

His eyes opened. Heavy breath. Another dream. The room was similar, but less bright than its fantasy counterpart. Clothes in a similar spot. Only once he smelled meat cooking and heard the muffled sound of people talking was he sure this wasn't a dream too. He left his room and entered a kitchen of some sort. A cook had his back turned to Gelra, leaning over a huge pot set over the fire.

"Glad you're up!" he said, not turning his back. "I was worried I'd find you as dead as the man you rode into town with!"

So he is dead. Damn it.

"I'm a bit sore, but I'll be fine. Do you know where my things are?"

"The owner's got them. You should be able to find him at the bar through there."

He thanked him and walked out of the kitchen and towards a tall man seated at the bar against the back wall. "Hello, I was told you have my things?"

"That'd be me, son," the bartender said as he reached underneath the bar to pull out a sack. "Your sword and other effects are locked in my office. The clothes you were wearing last night have been cleaned but I doubt you'll ever get the blood out. You can keep those if you want. Follow me," he said as he stepped out from behind the bar. Gelra followed sheepishly behind the man, gruff and standing a head taller, clutching at the cloth sack. His sword, armor, and purse sat on his desk.

"It's all there," he said, sitting down behind the desk. "Before you go, though, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Sure," he said, sitting opposite him.

"Did you get a good look at the people that attacked you last night?"

"Not really. It was dark, and they were wearing black themselves."

"How many were there?"

"Uh, four. Any idea who they were?"

"I can make a good guess," he said, reaching down and bringing up an arrow, blood covering the tip. "You see the feathers? I'd seen these before on a bird unique to the wastes of Sheshpal to the north. It's a common enough bird that I'm not saying who attacked you came from there, but I'd be surprised if they didn't. I've already notified the local sheriff, but I'd like you to use your connections as a swordsman to try and find these bastards. The sheriff's heard of similar attacks a few hours away. Nobodies been caught yet, and it all seems to be really small attacks like the one last night. A few men coming in out of nowhere and then vanishing. I don't want people thinking this area's unsafe. Bad for business." He leaned forward. "I'd like to say that a swordsman's come to take care of things. Think you can do that for me?"

Sweat began to form as his stomach dropped. "It'll be taken care of, I promise."

A smile formed on the man's face as he leaned back. "Great! That's just fine!" He stood up and began leading Gelra out with an arm around his shoulders. "I'll give word to the sheriff. In the meantime, borrow one of my horses. You'll need it if you're going to get around up in Sheshpal."

"Of course," he said, thinking about what he was going to write his uncle.

*          *          *

Death. That's what Sheshpal reminded Gelra of after the lush green of Shorpal. The soil couldn't support any more than thin brush and twisted trees. Small crawling things and the animals only big enough to eat them without bursting. The map given to him by the sheriff was an old one. How accurate it was could only be guessed at. Everything looked the same once he'd left the last town, where he'd gotten rest, water, bearings, and little else. Nobody had any information on the arrow or the men who'd attacked him.

Now he was here, alone, with nothing more to go on than a poor memory and an arrow. Every moment that passed was another chance for him to turn back. What would I tell them? What could I say? He'd thought of a million excuses, but he kept going. He'd almost convinced himself that it really was his problem. He'd been attacked, too, after all. But, somehow, that meant less to him than getting home. Yet, here he was.

He lifted his head and checked the sun, making sure he was still going in the right direction. When he did he noticed a cloud of dust in the distance. People. He kicked the borrowed horse into a quick trot, praying that they weren't moving further away from him. Hoping that the only reason he hadn't seen it before was because they were getting closer, and not because he just hadn't been paying attention.

He didn't have to wait too long to get an answer.

Soon, figures appeared in the distance. Many figures. It was a caravan, dozens of riders and large cloth-covered wagons, with a battle-hardened swordsman at its head.

Alyadim.

The men accompanying him were initially hostile, but once they realized who Gelra was they backed down. "Do you not see what he carries? Refill his waterskins. So, Gelra, what brings you out here?"

After he explained what had happened to him and what he'd heard concerning the other attacks, Alyadim became deeply concerned. When Gelra showed him the arrow, a look of recognition flashed across his face.

"The make of it belongs to the Misa to the north," he said, and described how to get there.

"Would some of your men be able to accompany me? I fear I might get lost."

"I'd go with you myself if I could, but unfortunately there's a pressing matter which I must attend to, and I couldn't spare even a single man. All I can offer is the water and my prayers. Mind my directions and be careful. The Misa care for nobody but themselves, and it would be best to turn around and leave them alone."

"I can't do that, not until I confirm that they are the ones responsible."

"Suit yourself. I hope I get the chance to meet you again, young swordsman."

With that they moved on, Alyadim veering west and Gelra north. He arrived a few days later to find a small settlement populated by dead villagers. They'd been dead for a while, maybe a week. Parts were scattered everywhere, some appearing to have been partially eaten. Jackals, maybe. A few had arrows sticking out, the same make as the one Gelra carried with him. This should have been where these arrows came from. Had he gotten the directions wrong? Did he lose his bearings and end up in a village near where the Misa resided? It had taken longer to get here than Alyadim said it would take. He couldn't ask anybody here for directions, and the thought of wandering around here and probably getting lost didn't seem worth it, not by himself like this. He had to go back. This was too much for him.

"Thank you for your help," the sheriff said, taking back his map. "I'll spread word to some of the other baronies to gather men. They've slaughtered an entire village, and I don't see them stopping. I'd ask you to stick around and show us the way, but while you were gone a messenger came from the city. You're wanted by the Council immediately."

"Did they say what for?"

"No," he said. "Just that you're wanted."

"Thanks."

He bought the horse off the tavern owner, having become fond of her travelling the wastes, and made for Skandagal. The entire journey he wondered why he was being recalled when the annual meeting, the only one he was ever requested to attend, was done and over with. The trip back took about as long it had before, weighed down by unfounded guilt instead of a wagon. He'd always just simply gotten by as Stupakparya, never being comfortable with a public position. Never made a fuss, never made waves. This message was unprecedented for him. He'd never been singled out like this, not since the sword he carried suddenly appeared to him one day almost nine years earlier, when he was only thirteen. Since then, he just did what he had to and that was it. He wasn't really excited about what he was now. After all—

"The year is 793. We've progressed far since the founding of this great city. We've achieved something many thought impossible: unifying the nations of this continent under one banner, that of the High Council of the Five Nations. Us."

Gelra stood before the panel of councilors, every one of them, in his mind, a copy of the next. They took turns speaking to him, but as far as he knew they all spoke as one. He had to make a conscious effort to try and look at them, but his head kept drifting back down to the floor. It's beautiful stone, whatever it's called.

"Gelra, we've come to the agreement that in this modern age of peace, the Stupakparya are reminders of a time when war was commonplace. However, times have changed, and the notion of war is a relic. That is why we have decided it is best for the people of this great land to abolish the tools of war, including the sword which you carry now." Guards came out of the shadows and moved towards Gelra. "As an act of good faith, we would like you to now relinquish your sword to us. The other swordsmen have been sent for, and are on their way to do the same. This is the beginning of a new chapter in our history. You should be proud to be the first." Gelra unclasped the sword belt. "You and the other swordsmen will be the example which the rest of the world will follow. Once we've gathered you all there will be an announcement held here to the rest of the nations. No longer will there be blood shed over trivial matters. We of the High Council shall be the ones to determine how disagreements are won, not through brute force but with debate and adjudication. Humanity is too precious and too civilized for anything less." A guard reached for Gelra's sword.

"But, what about rebels and gangs? I was attacked the day after I left this city."

"Yes, we'd seen the report. This is a small matter and will be dealt with accordingly."

"A man died! I was almost killed!"

"And they will be dealt with. Now please hand over your sword."

"You don't understand."

"Gelra."

"A whole village was murdered!"

Not a single expression changed.

"Another matter to be dealt with. Guards, take the sword."

They did.

TFS rewrite wip

Closed eyes. Gaping mouth. Red. Brown hair. Yellow flowers. Red. Hard iron. Gelrabek. Red. Closed eyes. Red. Gelrabek. Gaping mouth. Red. Soft skin. Red. Eyes open.

Gelrabek!

He opened his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. Just a dream.

The council meeting was still going on. Boring talk of boring subjects. When the gods had gifted him with his sword as a child, he'd never dreamed of playing politician, but peace was the law of the land. It left little room for swords.

The men seated around Gelrabek, eyeing him briefly before turning their attention back to whoever was speaking, weren't interested in his frustrations. They worried about money. Other people's money. Getting more money. Spending money.

Boring.

Gelrabek considered going back to sleep, but the light shining into the chambers was from a low sun. It was almost time to leave, get back to his temporary home here in the city. His eyes wandered around the many stern faces, hoping to find Shartaura, the swordsman who trained him. There. Gray hair tied back. Neatly trimmed beard, still black despite his age. The blue-stained pieces of leather armor were more decorative than functional, just like Gelrabek's own brown pieces. Just like the swordsmen themselves. Stupakparya they were called, a title that once meant something, but now all it got him now was a sore back from sitting on a stiff wooden bench all day. Shartaura was a lot better at putting on a good face to impress the politicians, but young Gelrabek didn't care enough to try and hide his annoyance, only enough to not get up and leave.

Shartaura wasn't looking in his direction, just the speakers as they came, spoke, and left and the people seated immediately next to him, whispering to each other. Gelrabek stretched his legs, stiff from the hours and hours of sitting, interrupted only once to relieve himself. He'd spotted two other swordsmen along the way, but they were too busy with each other to pay him any attention. A pang of jealousy for the lovers, Chardap, built to fight and win, and Vadlaya, beautiful as the sun, but easier on the eyes, made his heart beat fast for a moment. The fifth swordsmen, Alyadim, hadn't been spotted by him. He wondered if Alyadim was even in attendance, and why he was. It was a waste of time, but when the closing prayer came to an end he wasted no time in getting up and making for the nearest exit. It was time to relieve himself again.

"Ahawa!"

Shartaura was standing next to a couple of the men he'd been speaking to during the meeting when Gelrabek stepped back out onto the green surrounding the enormous council chambers. Straightening himself up while walking towards them-

Why do I care what these forgettable people think of me?

-Gelrabek weaved through the crowd spreading its way into the city of Skandagal. He'd hoped to see Shartaura before night fell, if only to say goodbye. The last few years it seemed like they only ever saw each other at these annual meetings, and sometimes not even then.

"You know I prefer Gelrabek, Shartaura."

"Here, I want you to meet some people," he said, ignoring his comment. "This is Sarish and Dafed," he said, motioning to each. Each wore the expensively embroidered tunic and shawl of priesthood. "They'll be accompanying us on our voyage north."

His mind started racing as he held each of their hands in turn to greet them. "I'm sorry, what voyage?"

"I want you to come with us to Kalires. It's an island miles from the coast of Dubaya. I've found a beautiful cave there, and I want to show it to you. I doubt anybody knows about it but me. I've been describing it to these two men during the meeting,"

Glad he was just as bored as I was.

"and they wish for me to show it to them. Get closer to the gods. You really feel their blessing sitting inside, away from, well," he said, gesturing around him, "all this. You should go and grab your things. I'm planning on leaving tonight if we can."

"But, I," don't want to "can't. They're expecting me back home. It's hard enough on my uncle leaving him for these meetings. I can't leave him alone longer than is necessary."

"Ah, I forget." The disappointment in his eyes almost made him change his mind. "Well, perhaps afterwards, eh? Give my regards to your uncle for me." With that he turned back to the men whose names Gelrabek had already forgotten and began walking with them towards the harbor while Gelrabek turned and walked away, cursing himself under his breath.

I should've gone. Idiot. Why didn't I go? I should've gone. Stupid. Stupid.

Regret followed him all the way to his bed that night, alone with his thoughts in a cold dark room. The noises outside his room certainly didn't improve things. Eventually exhaustion overtook him and he got a bit of peace.

They next day he hitched a ride with a farmer who'd come to town to sell off some of his crops. The man was nice enough, but Gelrabek cared even less about raising crops than politics, and spent most of the trip in the back of the cart lying down and staring up at the sky. The wood still reeked of whatever fruit the farmer had raised, with scattered dark splotches left behind by the pieces squished by those above them. The sweetness mixed with smell of grass and flowers that grew in the fields on either side of the road. Much more pleasant than the city. A bump here and there prevented him from getting too comfortable though, and Gelrabek welcomed the darkening sky.

"How far'd we get?"

"Well, Bacha's still-"he said, his words cut short by an arrow he took to the chest. Gelrabek's eyes widened. Heart raced. Riders, four of them, dark, a bit off the road ahead but getting closer. He wrapped his arms around the man's limp body and grabbed the reigns, urging the old farm horse into a gallop. Another arrow flew, sinking into the man's thigh. Come on! The cart shook violently, the stiff cart making it hard for him to keep his balance without holding onto the dying man tighter. Another arrow, sticking from the horse's neck this time. As he urged the horse on, Gelrabek saw the glint of metal against the black. Come ON! A raised arm swiftly lowered, a sword catching the horse on its shoulder and collar. Gelrabek fell back down into the cart, hoping not to receive the next sword swing. Chop. Warm wet along his arm. Thud. Pressure. He couldn't get up. The farmer was lying on top of him. He rolled out from underneath, glancing at the riders now behind him, but not chasing. Why? He swung his legs over and settled into the driver's seat, desperate to get to Bacha before it was too late. He was too afraid to see that it already was.

Leo Ryan Story Prologue

"I'm getting old. I never really thought about it until recently, but that doesn't make it any less any true. I worry I'm getting too old to do something worthwhile. I don't have the same energy I used to. Real passion, you know?"

"Having trouble getting it up, Dan?"

"Jesus, Mike. I'm talking about ideas! Big ones! Ones I set aside when something easier came along."

"Sounds like somebody just watched 'Mr. Smith Goes to Washington' recently."

"I worry about not having enough time left to do all the things I'd set out to do, or enough energy."

"Isn't that what retirement's for?"

"Who's retiring?"

"Dan."

"Not running again? I thought for sure you'd die still sitting in office, at the ripe age of 100."

"That's not what I meant. I'm drunk but I didn't think I was slurring my words that badly. I want to be remembered for something good. Something important. I don't care what that sounds like to you cynical bastards. Here, I have something."

"Couldn't be your wallet. I don't think I've ever seen you pick up the tab here."

"It's a letter. One of my aides gave it to me today. I think you might know the sender, Pat. Chris Sluzky?"

"Yeah, I've met him a few times."

"His son, Ben, died."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"He didn't talk about him a lot. He was, uh, you know."

"Gay?"

"No, one of the meat syndrome, uh, sufferers."

"Oh."

"The official report is that he died from complications, but he doesn't believe it. Ben was involved in the Democratic Church of Christ, but left a couple weeks before his death. Chris thinks that-"

"Didn't they all move down to Venezuela?"

"Uh, yeah, most of them. Chris thinks that there were people in the church that had something to do with it."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know yet. Donaldson thinks they're on the level. Eccentric, but doing a good thing."

"Taking the mutants out of the country gives him a good grade in my book."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. Listen, I don't know what they're doing. I don't know. Nobody does. That's what I'm trying to get at."

"How?"

"This is it! Nobody knows what's going on with those people! Chris wants to find out why his son died. If somebody in the church knows anything, anything at all, don't you think that's worth looking into? If somebody is involved, what's to say any of the other rumors about these people are any less true? Guns. Drugs. Forced slavery. Who knows what else. Maybe more people have died than my friend's son at their hands. If I can show the world what these people are really up to..."

"What?"

"Then maybe I'll be remembered."

"You're worried about your legacy?"

"Listen, I don't need to hear it. I just need you to make me chairman of the subcommittee on South America. I can take it from there."

"I don't know. This sounds risky."

"I would have jurisdiction. They built their own damn city down there. Strictly Americans."

"No, I mean, what if the rumors are true? What if they don't like you prying in on them?"

"I know, but I'll bring people with me. Cameras, too. They wouldn't dare to kill someone on live TV. Especially a Congressman."

He smiled and took another drink.

WIP

It's 5 in the morning.

Birds are chirping. The CD repeats itself for the umpteenth time. The sky begins to brighten. I'm drunk and smoking my last cigarette and it's 5 in the God damn morning. We're drunk: laughing, talking. Mostly talking. Talking about her boyfriend. Talking about how she isn't sure if she's in love with him anymore. Talking about how her landlord needs to fix the faucet in the bathroom sink. Laughing about how I'd sprayed myself earlier when I turned that faucet on, not knowing it was broken. Talking about how her boyfriend fucked some other girl when she went down to Hebron, Ohio to visit her dying aunt. Talking about my new shoes.

I sit and stare at Alison through the haze of cigarette smoke. She's got wavy black hair of medium length, pulled back into a messy ponytail. She's not wearing any lipstick and whatever eyeliner she had on got wiped away the first time she started crying. She's wearing an old t-shirt, yellow, with a few splatters of white paint on the top of her generous bust. The shirt hugs tightly to her stomach, which has gotten a little bigger since I first met her, but I don't mind. Her jeans hug even tighter against her thighs. No shoes, no socks, just bright green toenail polish. In the early morning light her feet are eggshell, stained red on her soles and the tips of her toes. What I wouldn't give to–

"I'm sorry, I have to pee again," she says, laughing, as she stands up and heads to her bathroom.

"Jesus, you've got the bladder of a..." What would be a good metaphor? "...squirrel." Fuck.

She smiles and keeps walking to the hall. I take one last hard drag on my cigarette before stubbing out in a green glass ashtray, filled almost completely over the course of our night in. I get the feeling she's going to ask me to leave when she comes back out, but that's not what I want to do. Keeping myself limited to things that won't get me in trouble, I head out through the glass doors attaching the living room to the modest backyard of her duplex and plant myself on one of the white wicker chairs, lighting up another cigarette as I do so.

Would I get jealous if my girlfriend hung out with another guy as much as I see Alison, provided I actually have a girlfriend? I've been thinking about this more and more lately, but I have yet to be able to empathize with somebody I've always though of as a douche bag. Still, I feel like maybe I should try. I've never been jealous of any of my previous girlfriends, but they've never really been anything more to me than people I can get fucked up and then fuck. I've never thought of one as a friend.

Sand grinds underneath thirty-something pounds of aluminum and glass. "There you are," she says as she steps outside. The cloud cover gives everything a muted glow as the sun gets higher in the pale grey sky. She holds her arms crossed, rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms, as she walks barefoot across the chilly concrete to sit in the chair next to mine. "I'm getting pretty tired. I think you should crash on the couch."

"Yeah, I can do that. You got any extra pillows or blankets I can use?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

A plane flies low overhead and I take one more drag of my cigarette before stubbing it out on the ground. I look at her and force a smile. She half-closes her eyes and grins back, mouth closed. I really need to stop torturing myself.

The coffee is stale and they don't have any more grounds in their cupboard to make a fresh pot. I drink it quickly, knowing it's burning my mouth, because it's burning my mouth. Every breath I take in is filtered through my burning cigarette. I'm grinding my teeth in frustration. It's that feeling you get when you really need a drink, but the brandy in the coffee would've taken care of that feeling if that was really it. It's not the craving for a cigarette, obviously. I can't tell what it is, but it's eating up my patience faster than I'm drinking this coffee. Anna and Jerry brought one of their friends, Michelle. I don't know her, and they didn't tell me she was coming. Is that why I'm feeling this way?

"So, how do you know Jerry and Anna?" I say, making sure I mention Jerry before Anna.

"Oh, I work with Anna at Ferrer & Co., in Northside Mall," she says. I notice Jerry look down and then to his right, away from everyone.

"Yeah, I know," I say, wearing a pair of briefs I picked up there visiting Anna shortly after she got the job. I don't remember seeing Michelle there. Somebody this obese working at a store which by a general rule doesn't carry anything over Large or Extra-Large would've stuck out in my head, like seeing a hair in your soup. I despise Michelle. "How long have you been working there?" I ask, smiling.

"Just a month. I was working down in the food court–" you don't fucking say "–but I decided to try something different."

"So you decided to move," a grin I can't stop spreads across my face "not so much up as sideways?"

She can't seem to notice my inflection, and takes me seriously. She says, smiling, "Yes, exactly!" I look over at Anna and Jerry to see if they got my joke, but they're both staring down at their phones, completely oblivious. Fucking assholes. It was a good joke, and it was completely wasted.

David, the provider of the stale coffee and brandy (he didn't provide it as much as have it on hand when he left to get more coffee) comes in through the side door into the kitchen, adjoining the rather spacious sunken living room we're all sitting in with the lights off and the blinds drawn against the bright sun, the clouds of this morning having decided to travel on.

With everyone but Michelle having a cigarette constantly in their hands, the room had gotten quite smoky in the twenty minutes David had been gone. Thin bands of light shimmer between me and everyone else. David's saying something, I don't know what. All I'm doing is sitting here, sitting on David's couch, drinking David's coffee, drinking David's brandy. The cigarettes are mine, but I'm freely offering my smoke and ashes to him and his. He doesn't like my gift, that much is clear. I press the cigarette ember down into the tray half-heartedly.

I want it to burn out slow.

Smolder until I leave.

Please, please don't go out, not until I've left this place.

For some reason, I want to imagine this half-a-cig will burn indefinitely, that it will constantly be burning, because I never saw it go out.

I leave quickly, making sure to never catch a glimpse of the cigarette. I can't get out of that place fast enough. The others say goodbye and I give a half-hearted wave without looking back at them.

            "I feel like you're not listening to me."

            "..."

            "Did you hear what I said?"

            "..."

            "Hey!"

            "What?"

            "..."

            "What is it?"

            "'Concussed' is one of my favorite words to pronounce."

            He turned back around to watch whatever the fuck he was watching. Of course that's not what I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I think about killing myself as a joke. Not the telling him, that wouldn't be the joke. My actual death would be the joke. He'd leave for work and I'd be fine, then he'd come back and I'd be dead, with a ridiculous suicide note. Something like: "You shouldn't have eaten the last of my pretzels, Chris." I'd do it in the bathtub so that it'll be easy to clean up, or maybe outside, just to see if maybe someone would see me and call 911.

            Maybe.

            I'm not in a rush. I'm not depressed. Life is looking good, but I don't feel any real attachment anymore. It's just routine, living. I need something different, and I don't see that happening anytime soon. Maybe by spoiling the joke I won't kill myself, just in case something new does come along.

            Maybe.

            I try and watch along with Chris, but it's not keeping my attention. I want to be doing anything but watch this, whatever it is. I don't even remember the name of it. Somebody recommended it to Chris, and asked me to watch it with him, thinking I'd like it.

            "Chris, you should watch __________; it's really good."

            "Okay."

            "Hey, you want to watch _________ with me? I've heard it's pretty good."

            "Sure."

            I want to talk over it. I want to ruin it for Chris. I want to parrot so many movie critics I've read and watched and all their pretentious bullshit lines and criticisms. It's not fucking engaging. The characters are fucking flat. The editing is fucking bland. The direction has no fucking voice. The actors are fucking stale. The plot is fucking textbook. Where's the fucking motivation?

It's getting dark outside. I'm still wired and want to do something, but nothing's open. It's a Tuesday night. Tuesday's always seem to be the worst day of the week for me. I don't know why, they just are.

I've been mindlessly texting everyone on my contact list whom I actually like this entire time, hoping to find another distraction. Plans would be better; some excuse to leave my apartment again. I hate it here. Ever since my parents sold the old house I've never felt safe anywhere, like I need to keep moving. Not "moving" moving, just to never get too comfortable in one place. Maybe selling the house awakened in me the sense that nothing in life is permanent, that it's temporary and fleeting. Maybe that was the first of a series of epiphanies normal people make on the path to being comfortable with death, dying, and mortality. My suicidal attempts go back much further than that sale, so I can't really typify my experiences as "normal."

Nobody's texting me back, and it makes the experience that much more frustrating. I've even texted fucking Kenny. He shaves his head thinking it makes him look tough, but with his build, tattoos, and propensity for black t-shirts and white wife-beaters it just makes him look like a neo-Nazi.

The Morning After

He woke up slowly with the lazy morning sun to the smell of dust and old sweat and the sound of his lover's steady breathing. Gradually he became aware of himself and his surroundings: a dry mouth and a dull ache; one of her hands on his stomach; his left hand behind his head while his right arm stretched underneath her never-fluffed pillow. He stared up at the dust floating in the air, glitter in the sunlight. Pursing his lips, he blew a jet of air at them. Once the two met, the dust and his breath, they'd dance a chaotic dance, like sparks in a fire.

He breathed in, slowly, deeply. The scents of the night's activities were muted, forming a background to what was specifically Him and Her. It was calming and familiar. She didn't wear perfume, or, if she did, it was too subtle for him to detect. As far as he could tell, she was herself, just her, and he liked that.

She murmured quietly against his chest and slid one of her legs slowly onto his as her hand moved up onto his chest. Neither had bothered with putting any clothes back on, holding each other close until sleep overtook them. His mind raced down a single-minded path and he thought of gently nudging her awake. Slowly, silently, he shifted the stain-splattered sheet, softly sliding it across her slender shoulder. Fingertips barely restrained traced invisible lines along her upper arm, tickling the fine hairs visible in the sun's glare.

A sharp intake of air. He stopped, freezing his hand over her, afraid that even the muffled sound of his joints might wake her. Even that seemed like too harsh of a way to wake her up. He wanted her to slide into consciousness in a faint transition, unable to determine immediately if she was awake yet or still dreaming. He brought his hand back down carefully, every creak of his joints another heartbeat skipped. One fingertip slowly trailing up her arm was joined by another and another until each one touched her soft white skin, so slowly they would've lost the race from her wrist to her elbow against a snail. As his hand moved to follow along the bend at her elbow, he slowly brought the rest of his hand down, more carefully than a surgeon. The stiff pain from holding his arm up like that became almost too much by the time he made it back to her shoulder an eternity later. Thankfully he had his whole hand placed against her by that point and he felt he could be a little less careful in his caresses. He stretched the muscles of his arm as he moved from her shoulder down to her bare side, fingers catching oh-so-slightly on the slight raises of her ribs and the once sweat-slick skin. The little finger purposefully separated itself from the others to press into the yielding flesh of her breast as it pressed against him. The thoughts still stirred in his mind, unsatisfied.

As his hand moved from her side over to her back he moved the other onto her neck, from the base of her skull to a point behind her ear and back; slow circles beneath flaxen hair. The other hand moved more boldly, pressing her even closer against him as he moves his hand up her spine. A soft gasp escaped her soft lips as her leg slides further up. She's not awake, not yet. He suddenly became conscious of his own heavy breathing and the taste and smell of the beer they both shared last night, bitter and warmer than either would prefer, but neither one cared. They had been too caught up in each other to really pay attention to trivial details like that. He closed his eyes and lost himself in his memories: her rough tongue wrestling his own, the drunken giddiness as they fell into bed holding each other, the overwhelming release of climax. He couldn't hold back for much longer, not like this. Movement against his chest broke his carnal enthrallment. Her pale blue eyes looked up at him softly as she smiled.

"Good morning."

Bridges

“Well, how’ve you been?” he said before taking a sip of his wine.

“Fine, fine,” she said, looking nervous. She thoughtlessly wringed her hands as she looked around the restaurant. He noticed.

“You seem agitated.”

She turned back to him and brought her hands below the table, out of sight. She said nothing.

“Is this awkward for you?” he asked her.

“A bit, yeah. Isn’t it for you?”

He smiled, grateful for the hydroquinone he took before coming. “Not at all; I was looking forward to seeing you again.” They sat there, she looking around the room, her hands, anywhere but him, while he tried to think of what to say next. He wanted to talk about their son, Chris. If he said “her” son, he might come across as too distant. “His” son might seem too overbearing and possessive. He certainly couldn’t use “Chris,” since that was the name of the lover she took while he was on assignment.

“What about our son? How’s he doing?”

“Chris is great. He’s starting to say complete sentences. They aren’t always grammatically correct, but you can tell what he’s trying to say,” she said with a smile. She started to feel more relaxed, and talked more freely. “He’s doing a lot better than Pam’s kid. Serves him right after what he did to Chris.”

She must think I already know what happened, that she already told me, he thought. Maybe she told Chris, her lover, about it, and is confusing the two of us. I wonder if he has a kid at the same pre-school, and that’s how the two of them met. I can’t really ask her about that, at least not yet. I want to try and get her back, not push her away.

“I’m sorry, what did Pam’s son do to Chris?”

“Well, it wasn’t just one thing, he just acted like a bully. You know, taking his toys away, pushing him down, that sort of thing,” she said after drinking some of her wine. Narrowing her eyes, she added, “Don’t you remember?”

In fact, his memory finally did kick in as she was describing it. He felt very embarrassed and reached for his glass. “Now I do.” He swallowed almost all of it and reached for the bottle to pour himself some more.

They sat in silence. He couldn’t concentrate on any one thing for more than a moment, couldn’t come up with something for them to talk about. He didn’t want to resort to brainless small talk, but that had to be better than just sitting here and not saying a word.

“The weather yesterday was just gorgeous. I walked through Stanley Park and–”

The waiter came out of nowhere and interrupted him with salad. Relief swept over him. He had ran into an old girlfriend at the park, which he only remembered after he had started talking. They spoke only briefly, but he had spent the rest of the walk thinking about her and how he should try and keep in touch with her. When he had gotten home, he decided that if this dinner with his wife didn’t go well, that he would call her.

After he was about halfway through his salad, she broke the silence. “Do you really think we can make it work again?”

He stopped and looked up at her. “I think so. I think we deserve another chance.”

She bowed her head.

“Listen. I talked to the newspaper and they’re willing to work with me to give me more time here at home.” His home for the moment was a hotel room, but he felt that was beside the point. “I think we can make it work.” He reached out for her hand. She simply looked up at him.

“I don’t.”

Lies

Painful throbbing in my jaws makes me think of nothing but itself. I feel like my head is exploding, no, not my head, not the whole head, just my nasal cavity. I feel like I’ve been punched repeatedly by somebody I’ve somehow wronged, although really I try and stay out of other people’s ways and agree with them at all times, even if I’m lying. As an aside, this has made me, again, a completely nice and wholly agreeable person, an extremely talented liar.

I feel like the only thing that can get rid of this pain is a cigarette, maybe a bunch of pills, that or grinding my teeth until they crack and shatter. I’ve already had one, two…five cigarettes, and I’ll need my teeth to chew on the overcooked chicken breast my girlfriend is currently preparing in the kitchen so I look for some aspirin, find it, take it, and proceed to look for something else to chew on while the medicine takes effect. Wandering aimlessly in pain, doing all of my searching subconsciously, I find some toothpicks. Toothpicks we bought last year for the appetizers we brought to her family reunion.

My mind returns and I find myself in the kitchen, staring blankly in the direction of, though not actually at, pieces of raw chicken meat, covered in…something, although shiny bits of pink still peek through. I curse my subconscious for bringing me here, to the attention of my girlfriend, who looks at me and asks if I’m going to help. Her tone is one of annoyance, as it has been for several days now. I tell her I have a headache, which isn’t entirely a lie, and that I’m going to lie down for a bit, lay down for a bit, lie down for a bit. She tells me that she hopes it’ll make me feel better in time for supper, even though I can tell by her tone that she doesn’t care if I feel better or not. As I leave the kitchen, relieved to be leaving her sight, I think about how I should find a new girlfriend, but the lease for the apartment we live at is in both of our names, and there’s still the better part of a year left on it, so I dismiss the idea. Besides, I’m not the kind of person to do the breaking up. I leave it to the other person to do it for me. It’s never surprised me, and I have yet to empathize with whoever said that breaking up is hard to do.

Before I go to the bedroom I head back to the bathroom to put away the aspirin. The mirror covering the medicine cabinet is open slightly, angling the reflection. I say to myself, “Wow, this really changes me perspective on things,” which amuses me, but I don’t even smile because I’m looking at myself and how fat and ugly I am.

The smell of the cooking chicken wakes me up, and I hope it’s done, because I’m very, very hungry. I reach over for my glasses and put them on. The light blinds me for a moment after I open up the bedroom door. Before I go to check on the food I quickly put my pants back on, not wanting my girlfriend to see me in just my underwear, still self-conscious despite our being together for over a year now.

Heading into the kitchen I see her sitting on a stool by the window, smoking a cigarette and reading a book. I can’t tell which one. She acknowledges me without looking up, flicking ash into an ashtray sitting on the windowsill. I walk over to the oven and open it up to check on the chicken. Overdone.

I close the oven without taking the chicken out and I’m immediately grabbed around the waist by my girlfriend, who had put out her cigarette and put down her book. She kisses me and looks at me, smiling. “I love you,” she says.

I gently pull her hands off of me, and say, “You’re ruining my perception of reality.” As I slowly walk out of the kitchen, I add, “I love you, too,” before sitting down on the couch to think about how much my life sucks.